Every L is a Lesson

I was travelling to Georgia for a short break from the expedition to rest my body and raise funds for the next leg of my journey. The journey was supposed to take 17 hours. Around 1 a.m. we stopped for a toilet break. After I’d finished, I noticed one of my fellow passengers making his way around the bathroom. He was an elderly blind man. He was slowly feeling his way through the unfamiliar space, unknowingly walking towards an occupied urinal. I gently placed my hands on his shoulders and guided him in the right direction. We couldn’t speak the same language. But in that moment, he had no choice but to trust me. It’s a remarkably vulnerable position to be in. I guided him back out of the toilet and onto the bus, where others who spoke his language could help him further. Eventually, we all settled back down and I drifted off to sleep. Some time later I woke up and stepped off the bus. I had no idea we’d broken down. The first thing I noticed was where we were. The sun was beginning to rise over the Anatolian landscape, and it was breathtaking. Then I looked to my left. The elderly man was standing there too. He was surrounded by a beauty his eyes could never reveal to him. Only then did I realise why we were all outside. The bus had broken down. Strangely, I wasn’t frustrated. Instead, I felt grateful. How could I complain about a delay when I still had my health? During the two hours we waited, I met two men around my age, one a musician, the other an engineering student. We spoke about life and our different paths. I also met a grandmother travelling with her family. In my limited Turkish I explained that I was walking from the UK to Kenya. She smiled, shared some plums with me, and before long we were all laughing together. Eventually we reached Trabzon, where I boarded another bus to Batumi. At the border, my second bus developed its own problems. Another hour and a half disappeared. By the time I finally arrived in Batumi it was around 2 a.m. The apartment I’d booked had gone to sleep. My SIM card wasn’t working. I was exhausted, irritable and unsure what to do next. Thankfully the bus station had Wi-Fi. I booked another place, found a taxi and, after another wait, finally got into bed. The next morning I realised my glasses had disappeared, not my Oakleys 😭 I need them to see. I checked the CCTV. I arrived wearing them. Now they were simply… gone. I searched every pocket, every bag and every corner of the room. Nothing. I began to think of all things to steal, why glasses But what can I do? Nothing. I laughed to the thought that I hope they are useful wherever they end up. accepted the loss, checked out and got on with my day A few hours had passed and i had just checked in to my hostel, There I saw a Software engineer working and immediately my brain went back to the project I’m building. I want to code, I put my Mac near the ladder and climbed down the stairs of my bunk, As I climbed down, in slow motion. I watched it fall. It landed directly on its corner. Before I’d even opened it, my mind raced. The delays. The missing glasses. The cost of replacing everything. How could I have been so careless? Maybe the screen would be okay. I opened the lid. It wasn’t. Broken. For five or ten seconds I just stood there, replaying everything that had happened over the last day. Then an elderly man walked past me in the hostel. He wasn’t the same man from the bus. But he reminded me of him. And instantly, I remembered the blind man standing in the middle of that beautiful sunrise, unable to see any of it. I took a deep breath. Accepted that the laptop was gone. And felt grateful. Because if I am to loose anything, I’d much prefer it to be a thing every single day My glasses. My laptop. Money. Possessions. After 257 days of walking the world, carrying everything I own on my back, crossing countries alone and facing whatever the road has thrown at me, I still have my health. I still have my legs. I still have my sight. I still have the people I love. There have been countless moments on this journey where things could have gone far worse, many I was probably never even aware of. Yet here I am. Healthy. Walking. Alive. Viktor Frankl wrote: “Between stimulus and response there is a space. In that space is our power to choose our response.” This time, in that space, I chose gratitude.